A FatherSon Conversation
by WallofIllusion
Summary: “You are not your own,” the father explained. “Through this Ritual, you have become his. You have been dedicated to him.”


Um... yeah. It's another fic about the Gravkeepers' Ritual. ...Maybe I should have my head examined, because one was enough and two was pushing it, but... three!

Oh well. This idea occurred to me at work on Friday, and I wrote it Saturday morning. I'm pretty happy with it.

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A Father-Son Conversation**

Was there a time when his back hadn't hurt like this?

The boy, lying bound to the stone table, couldn't remember one. Everything before this day, before this pain, seemed wiped from his memory, crowded out by the unbearable throbbing in his back and the inescapable biting of the knife into his flesh.

The pain was everything. There was nothing before it, and there would be nothing beyond it.

The boy didn't notice when the knife's regular descent into his back stopped. The ache, the sting was so constant anyway that he only realized when the ties on his ankles were loosened. The boy lifted his head slightly as his father came to undo his arms.

"It's over," the man said, taking the boy's gag out.

The boy closed his eyes and nodded once, then gasped and stiffened as the motion stretched the mutilated skin at the back of his neck and made his eyes water. In an effort to halt the pain, the boy tremblingly relaxed his entire body, lying limp.

It helped—not by much, but at least no one part burned more than any other. Maybe he could stand the pain like this for a while, if he didn't have to move.

Something cool trickled onto his back, stinging in the cuts. Used to the warmth of his own blood, not expecting cold, the boy shivered and then gasped again as a wave of pain moved down his back.

His father touched a soft cloth to the boy's left shoulder, wiping gently, and the boy understood: he was washing the cuts.

The boy withstood the shifting focus of the pain without speaking or crying out. And so the two, father and son, head of the clan and heir to it, continued in silence for a while.

Then the father spoke. "Do you understand what this Ritual is for, Malik?" When the boy didn't reply, the father continued, "It is to swear your loyalty to the nameless Pharaoh." He tipped more water onto the boy's back. "You are not your own," the father explained. "Through this Ritual, you have become his. You have been dedicated to him."

The soft cloth reached the bottom of the boy's back, and the father stepped away for a moment. At some point, the boy had tensed up; now he relaxed again. Soon he felt warm liquid leak from the cuts once more.

His father returned. "Get up. You need bandages."

The boy refused to respond. No, he decided. That would only hurt more. He would have to get up and it would hurt, and his father would wrap his back and it would squeeze and sting and hurt even more.

"Get up. Now."

The command was undeniable; the boy weakly pushed himself up on his arms, whimpering as muscle and bone moved under his back and disturbed his tender skin. Finally, he managed to work himself into a kneeling position, his back to his father.

"How do you feel?" the man asked offhandedly.

"Dizzy," the boy whispered. "And it hurts. Everything hurts."

There was a pause. Then—"Get used to it," the father advised softly. "It'll be that way for a while."

The father began wrapping the bandages from the bottom of his son's back. He completed several revolutions and then tugged on the bandages to make them more secure. The boy gave a cry.

"Too tight!" he whimpered desperately. "It hurts! They're too tight!"

The father ignored his son's complaint and continued wrapping the boy's back, making no adjustment in the tightness of the bandages. Understanding that protest was useless, the boy bit his lip and did his best to bear the pain silently.

The circles of bandages reached the boy's chest. "Lift your arms," his father commanded.

"It'll hurt. I don't want to." The boy's voice was a trembling whisper.

"Lift your arms," the father repeated, not changing his tone.

No choice. Meekly, the boy obeyed, biting back a cry as his skin smarted. "It hurts, Father," he objected, almost silently. "It hurts…"

The bandages wound their way around the boy's chest and around the top of the cuts. The carvings stung and burned and _hurt_—but the boy did not cry out.

And finally the bandages were finished.

"Stay here," the father said as he left the room again. When he returned, he held a piece of something black that rubbed off on his fingers—kohl.

"I want you to understand something, Malik," the father said as he drew near and roughly gripped the boy's chin. He brought the kohl to his son's face and began lining the boy's eyes.

"The Ritual that you have just received is the most important thing that will ever happen to you," he explained firmly. "It is the most crucial part of your existence. You were _born_ to receive this Ritual. Your fate is already decided—you will serve and protect the Pharaoh's memory until your death. There is no other purpose to your existence. Do you understand me?"

The boy remained silent, staring at his father and trying to quell the strange, aching frustration that awoke in response to the man's words.

"I asked you if you understood me, Malik."

Still hesitant, but not foolish enough to protest, the boy whispered, "I understand."

And he did. He understood that that was to be his life, that he was no more than an object, that that was never going to change. He understood that he would live, suffer, and die in this tomb for the sake of a pharaoh who had died three millennia ago.

He understood.

"That's good," said his father, and he gave a tight, sarcastic, bitter smile. "Happy birthday."

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End note: This may be the most sympathetically that man's ever been portrayed...  



End file.
